Death of Souls
by wineybrat
Summary: Two souls bound together remain united even in death, though who says death is permanent? When a demon fails his contract, memories remain unlost and judgement is a game of hearts, the impossible can become possible. The tenacity of a Phantomhive and his butler is unshakable, and even arbiters can be corrupted. SebxDecim, light slash, no spoilers.


What happens to you after you die? Perhaps there is no such thing as a soul, and all that there is is a body firing electrical impulses of sensation and emotion to the brain. In this case a body—you, me, everyone we know—will rot. Tender flesh both softened by oils and hardened by long years of wear and labor will shrivel back into the dust from which it was born.

However, maybe, just maybe, there is also a soul, dwelling within the machine of calcium and ligaments. The soul must be buried deep and tied firmly to its host. For if this bond is cut, the soul will be called away, and this is the state called death. While your blood drains and your muscles stiffen, where has your soul gone? Heaven? Hell? Whether the painted pale face smiles or the crimson gashed mask glares is up to our judges to decide.

In a wide room with doors leading to nowhere and halls spiraling round and round, silver threads are plucked and their silent pianist plays. Blank eyes in an empty gallery listen to the echoes with holeless ears. And a young man behind a bar prepares for the night's guests to appear.

An unfamiliar darkness engulfs him, but he is not afraid. It is expected, and he was well prepared to stare into its vast depths just as he saw so many do before him. What is not expected, however, Is the motion. As though submerged deep within a pool of gently coaxing tides. Neither up nor down nor in a particular direction, but he is moving nonetheless. Then a gasp. Whereas once he had merely a presence of self, he now has sensation, pressure,_ weight_. He has legs and feet and hands and nails, just as he always had them..._before_.

He glances around at the small room in which he stands. Black crossing boarders line the base with a neutral grey scheme inspiring neither panic nor comfort. He feels no encroaching threat of claustrophobia, though his juvenile limbs, if stretched, could brush against each wall. He does not think of small cages with iron bars and the poison of being powerless. He merely ponders where he is and why he is there.

He continues to let his gaze wander to the panel of pearlesque buttons on the facing wall as he waits for the motion to stop and the golden doors before him to open.

This, however, is very much unexpected. He has never found himself in quite this position before, with only the vaguest idea of where he may be. In fact, he never truly believed he could be in this position. Millennia of experience does tend to make one arrogant of one's own knowledge.

Now, what indeed had happened to put him in such a position, he wonders. Frowning, as he now did have lips with which to frown, at his minds vaguely disappointing laps, he settles for checking his supplies to prepare for any upcoming trial.

His white gloves, pristine as ever—not the slightest stains of red mar their purity—probe the pockets both hidden and ornamental of his customary black ensemble. There in the lower left a silver watch of the highest filigree, and here in the upper right a kerchief embroidered with quality thread curving elegantly into an "SB."

He has nothing else on hand, but what exactly was he expecting? Butter knives and silverware? Cups for tea, stray bullets and broken glasses? Straw hats and snake skins? Troublesomely enough, he does not quite remember what he had been expecting. But, ahhh, right there. Tucked into the corner of an unturned pocket, he finds a single item more: a black swatch attacked to two thin bits of ribbon. An eyepatch custom fitted for a damaged child.

Revealing the slightest sliver of a delighted fanged grin, the patient man in black smiles.

Ah, here the guests come now. Blank, dual toned eyes slide to the chiming doors ahead. From one set emerges no more than a boy, not yet into his years of rapid growth. Expensive cloth drapes his small form while cautiously arrogant eyes pierce through the obscurity of shadowy locks.

Tense and prideful, the boy steps boldly from the elevator shaft to take in the dancing chrystal of the chandelier and the open spread of a ball room floor and finally the downy haired man staring from behind the bar with an empty face and unwavering eyes. Hardly a second has passed before the tension in his shoulders fades and his back is drawn straight. The boy opens his mouth in greeting.

"Oh? It seems the dog is faithful as ever, following its master to the grave." He mocks and leers and smirks at the second elevator's occupant. He _knows_, the barkeep gapes within. Maybe not everything, but more than he should. The bartender is thrown off and frozen for the briefest of moments, but if the other two noticed, they are very good actors.

"Well of course, Young Master," here the man in black sighs as if much aggrieved by the snark of an inferior being, "It is my duty to care for you until you are more…_capable_ of taking care of yourself. After all, what kind of Phantomhive butler would I be if I couldn't at least keep track of an errant youth."

Irritation at both the blatant and implied insult flashes through the Phantomhive boy's eyes cold as ice and searing as flame. But his composure is regained as quickly as it was lost.

"Strange that we should find ourselves together here. Tell me, is our contract still…" Here he trails off, but for the first time since striding from the elevator doors, a vulnerable uncertainty makes its way into the quaver of his voice. However eloquent and refined, the boy is still just a boy. The man, though, seems to draw great amusement and a vindictive kind of glee from the boy's—Ciel's—the bartender's mind informs him, distress. Despite his own enjoyment, the man in black—Sebastian Michaelis—slips the previously discovered eyepatch around the boy's right eye, securing it with skillful flourish behind his head.

"Indeed it is. But it does seem to be altered due to recent events."

"Altered in what way," the youth demands. "And what exactly happened to br—"

"Welcome to Quinn Decim." The bartender has recovered enough begin the night's events with his customary opening, though unintentionally he has interrupted the pair. Two sets of eyes slice into him. One sizzling with impatient scorn and unanswered questions. The other cool and detached, flicking over his form and, once again, condescendingly amused. This seems to be a constant in regards to the black garbed Sebastian.

The pair approach the bar with a predatory step, hunting stomps leading stalking strides. And then begins an inquisition.

"What are you exactly? You are no grim reaper. Nor are you a demon or angel. Obviously I am no longer alive, but I am in some way still among the living, perhaps? Where am I? Were you the one to call me here? What do you know of the recent disappearances around the continent?"

Again overtaken by an alien sensation—confusion—but never slipping in his outer composure, the bartender turns swiftly away to reach for a corded phone. The mumbled conversation escapes even Sebastian's ears, but he does catch a single firm reproach from the other end, "Decim, calm yourself and finish your task!" The conversation quickly ends after that point and Decim the bartender circles back around to his guest, reacquainting them with his usual blank mien.

"My sincerest apologies for the delay," his voice drones out, melodic in its monotonous tone. As only one intimately familiar with his motions can, Decim falls back into the rhythm of his work. "Now to begin, First: I cannot answer your questions. Second: You two will now engage in a game. Third: The game you play will be chosen by roulette. Fourth: You will stake your lives on this game. Fifth: Untill this game is over, you will not leave this bar. That is all."

His guest show neither outrage nor fear at this last request, though they spare only vague interest for the rest. And then young Ciel smiles the sweetest smile. The kind that convinces angels to sin and sinners to fear.

"Our lives? Hardly. Our lives and our souls were abandoned long ago. What would you do, Mister Decim, if we were to refuse to play your little game?"

Decim is neither an angel nor a sinner. He does not blink as he steps to the side. "I would not recommend that." A panel slips from the back wall of the bar. A sound of shattering glass crashes into young ears. And Ciel falls, breathing in heaving gasps. An image dances behind his eyes of puppets full of sand and children in a circus. He cannot tell the difference between the two when both lie twisted and smiling on the ground, faces broken in half with shattered smiles and burning pain and—

"Oh poor Young Master. It seems as though you have problems sitting still in such high chairs. Shall I give you a hand?" The mockery in that voice breaks through the mirage of his vision, and the familiar safety of irritation rises to match the impertinent tone.

"Silence. I most certainly do not need help from a mere servant." And once again, he is in the bar with a butler in black and a bartender in white.

Decim stands unmoving and unconcerned by the boy's attack. Such strong memories so early, while not unheard of, is uncommon, and early memories rarely are involved with one's manner of death. Another strange aspect of tonight's guests, he supposes. This does not matter. Decim will continue through the night, as is his job. He must allow his guest to begin their game. Pulling out a small box studded in the center with a circular red orb, he taps the object down in front of the man and boy.

"Please press here to begin the roulette."

Cold and composed as his title demands, the young Lord Phantomhive reaches out with a steady hand presses a button, red as his aunt's hair and the mask above one elevator's door.

It is time for judgement, and none will truly now where wandering souls go.

**AN**: Hi, well...yeah. I just got this idea around 1 in the morning yesterday after watching the last episode of Death Parade *wipes a tear*. I'll try to avoid spoilers or either series, but I just wanted to give a quick mention of what you can expect from this fic: no heavy slash, Ciel will not be involved in any romance what so ever (so CielxSeb fans don't need to worry about me corrupting their cute, little lord). This is going to be a short one around 3 chapters total I think, but I have no idea if/when I'll finish. Depends on the response it gets I suppose. Seeing I haven't found any other Butler-Parade crossovers, I'm not really sure if people are even interested. So yeah, hope you enjoyed reading!


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